


A Song of Steel

by Vex_ation



Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures
Genre: Corsairs - Freeform, Gen, Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vex_ation/pseuds/Vex_ation
Summary: The seas have not been the same since the two most infamous pirates this side of the Mediterranean were swept away in the currents surrounding the Isles of Fire and Lightning. Now, one measly crew member scours the sea for any sign of her captain, her faith in the Great Lord N and the map in her locket the only hope she has of revitalizing the greatest pirate captain who ever lived. She hunts for any trace of him while undercover on a merchant ship, hoping beyond hope to find her lord or his rival-- if the navy officer on her tail doesn't kill her first, that is.
Relationships: will be updated as they appear
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	A Song of Steel

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter of this fic was written for the Spe Art Community Discord for an event that combined Pirate AUs and less popular dexholders-- I was assigned Blake / Whitley! While this was supposed to be a oneshot, it got a bit out of hand and now it's the first chapter of a longer multichap fic! I hope you enjoy

Whitley was a firm believer that Casablanca looked best at night. In the daytime, the lights were blinding, a million rays of the sun bouncing off the polished marble and making the whole city seem to gleam. It was beautiful but blinding, the overindulgence of light making it hard for anyone to walk around without squinting and shading their eyes. It was simply too stunning to look at directly. 

But at night, when the sun refused to shine and only the moon and stars painted everything silver, Whitley swore she could see all the colors in Casablanca’s white walls. No longer was the city so blinding or painful to look at, but so, so beautiful, stark in its contrast against the dark night sky. Every color of lantern painted its own beautiful pictures on the walls, and instead of feeling like her eyes were going to melt every time she dared look up, she could walk around and learn to appreciate the beauty of the white city. Unfortunately for her, she did not have the time to appreciate the subtle and melancholy darkness of a white city in the black of night-- she had something to do before nightfall. 

For pirates like her, time was the most precious commodity. Pirates lived good lives (well… actually that depended on who you asked) but not necessarily long ones. They did not have the time to admire their own reflections in public fountains or see the history painted on the walls of every city they pillaged. Pirates, despite their portrayal as lazy drunkards who only knew how to enjoy themselves, were rather efficient, and they certainly didn’t like to waste time. Whitley often mused to herself that they were a lot more like the naval officers they so hated than they realized, but telling anyone on the ship would get her thrown overboard faster than she could count to three. 

At the moment, she wasn’t really feeling any camaraderie with the government officers skulking around Casablanca. They were the rats who closed in on her ship, wrecking years of meticulous planning with their savagery and treating her king like some kind of cult leader, something to be crushed beneath their heels like a dying sandcrab. They treated the prophet like the monsters he conversed with, as though he were as treacherous and vile as the krakens who lurked below the waves. She couldn’t help but blame them for running her ship into that storm. Had they not been so cruel, so close-minded, so… blind, perhaps her lord would still be among them instead of lost in the open ocean. Her priority now was to find her lord, to carry on his message and bring him back to them-- but sometimes she could only wonder how she would react if she had the option to bestow upon one of them even half the pain they had caused her and the rest of crewmates. 

There was no time for that. There was no time for regrets or anger or plans for vengeance. The only thing Whitley could hope for was enough time to find her lord before something terrible befell him. Time was precious, every minute another opportunity, and Whitley needed to use it as wisely as she could. In Casablanca, however, time seemed to move more slowly. 

No one here seemed in an especially big hurry, which wasn’t especially convenient for a pirate on the run from the navy and searching for someone who very well could have been wasting away each minute she delayed. Whitley had one mission: Find her lord N as quickly as possible. There was no telling what fate befell him the day the sea claimed him once again, but Whitley knew that the holy ocean would not devour their prophet so mercilessly. Even though the rest of the crew gave up hope, even though the navy assured themselves that N was long dead, drowned in the sea, Whitley refused to submit, even when she was the last one left. She would find him-- even if she had to do it alone. 

To do that she needed a ship, a crew, and some way to steer them towards the place her Lord had been swept away. The moment he disappeared beneath the waves, Whitley knew she had lost all of them. In that moment, when not even the bravest of pirates could weather the mighty current and her lord was lost among the swells of the oceans, Whitley lost it all. She could find it again-- she had hope of that, but there simply wasn’t the time to scrounge a crew and a ship on her own. She had no experience as a captain and not nearly enough coin to buy a ship in these ports; her only option was to sneak on a ship going in the same direction and pray they got close enough for her to find him. As she walked along the docks, she realized that perhaps this was a fool’s errand, because who would be going to the most dangerous part of the Atlantic? Currents around N’s last location were wicked, the work of krakens and sea monsters that N would normally tame. Without her lord, no one would dare approach such a place-- there was no reason to outside of the feeling particularly adventerous and stupid. Hoping, in times like these, was all she could do. 

A sudden presence beside her sent chills down her spine. As Whitley turned, expecting a naval officer or fearsome pirate, she heard a clipped voice shout commands to crewmembers scattered throughout the dock. The woman was one of many merchants in the area, and nothing about her wares was especially impressive-- the sheer number of them and the size of her ship made Whitley gawk, but that just meant she was successful. Merchants didn’t interest her too much, since all they really did was move from port to port with boxes of goods and foodstuffs. None of that was of use to her-- none would ever venture towards the islands she needed. And then, as though descending from the heavens, Whitley heard the woman’s commands shower down, making hope swell within her once again. 

“Pack more! We’re heading past the Islands of Fire and Lightning, we’ll need more hardtack than that! Barbara, go help Amanda carry those boxes and find some more food!” 

Whitley stopped paying attention after that. This merchant-- this random, strangely successful merchant, was plunging into the most treacherous part of the ocean and leading her exactly where she needed to go. Knowing this was her only chance, she knew she had to get on that ship-- Lord N had sent her his blessing after all. 

As Barbara disappeared into an alleyway, shaking her head and pulling out a few coins, Whitley began to hatch a plan. Barbara was a little different from the other crew members, a little more like Whitley and her mates than the rest of her ship. And if Whitley knew pirates, she knew what made them tick. The bag of treasure felt heavier in her pocket as she tailed Barbara into a bar. If Whitley could only muster up some courage and charisma, this would be a piece of cake. 

Whitley leaned across the bar, flashing her most syrupy smile. She probably looked pained, possibly even constipated, but piracy taught you swordplay and not how to talk to people. The woman across the table looked decidedly unamused, nursing her drink with a suspicious glare. 

“I don’t trust you,” she admitted. Whitley faltered, silently cursing to herself. 

“I just… could you put in a good word? I- if it’s not too much trouble, I mean. I just want to get on that ship.”

Barbara leaned in, the ice in her glass ringing even over the din and chatter of the evening rush. She took a sip and stared at the ex-pirate over the rim of her glass, watching her squirm and sweat in anxiety. Barbara, for whatever reason, seemed to be enjoying it. 

“I don’t trust you, girlie, and even if I did, my loyalties remain with my crew and capt—“

The thunk of a bag filled with heavy coin and treasure from faraway lands hitting the wood shook the table, causing a few drops of Barbara’s liquor to spill over the side of her glass. Whitley kept his gaze steady as the merchant not-so-subtly peered into the bag. Her gaze flitting between Whitley and the bag, she slowly reached out to bite a coin between her teeth. They were real, that Whitley could assure her-- she was the one who dug it up. As her eyes widened and the familiar spark of greed lit up her eyes, she knew she had won. Barbara took a quick look around the bar and leaned in, scrutinizing Whitley carefully. Whitley smiled back at her, this time in total sincerity. Then, throwing her arms open wide, Barbara fell back into her chair with a massive grin. 

“Welcome aboard!”

...

The air was stifling in the port of Casablanca, and Blake's buttons jingled with every step. His uniform was thick and stifling, the golden trimming gleaming in the boiling sun. Sweat dripped down his brow as he silently begged for a breeze, but as luck would have it, the relentless heat of midafternoon only continued to beat, making the palms dip their heads in defeat along with the citizens. Around him, it seemed everyone was sneering at the poor naval officer dragging his feet in the sand. Blake paid them no mind-- he had a job to do. 

Whispers buzzed around his head like flies as he walked, wondering when he would collapse from heatstroke. No one wanted anything to do with him-- a stiff and cranky foreign naval officer smelled like trouble, and even rambunctious children averted their eyes and ducked behind market stalls at the sight of him. He radiated an aura of authority, and everyone knew how scary and slash-happy those sword-bearing officers could be. Blake was not prone to such acts of barbarism, but the resting scowl on his face didn’t give the locals much comfort. They just gave him funny looks and drew away as he walked past. But onwards Blake marched, the azure sea glittering before him. He intended to get to the docks before noon. It was there his test would begin. Even still, as a wad of spit from an unknown passerby struck him in the cheek, he wondered if perhaps he should change first.

When Blake arrived at the parlor, he began to understand the funny looks. These robes were significantly more comfortable and didn’t feel half as stifling, and though his Spanish features did not blend quite so well with the Moroccan locals, he looked well enough to fit in without too much of a question. Besides, he had money, and in these skeevy ports towns that's all one really needed. 

Presently, he sat on a barstool sipping on his drink as he watched the scenery. Magnificent ships were docked at the ports, unloading barrels and boxes and treasures in equal measure. He was not concerned with the pirates' booty or the merchants' wares, however. Instead, he was looking for a specific person, someone who had thus far managed to escape him. Blake was a completionist and he wasn’t going to allow this random quartermaster to be the one person to evade him. No, he would capture them yet even if it meant searching all seven seas, because no criminal got away from him-- not alive. Blake knew exactly when and how to flush pirates like them out, and for now, it was a game of collecting information. Like a tiger, one must lie in wait, still among the swaying grass. Soon, but not yet, it would be time to strike. For now, though, he simply had to endure this relentless heat. 

It was nigh impossible to find anyone from within this smoky bar, so Blake just sighed and dragged his bag out with him, flipping a coin back onto the counter for the bartender to find. His drink was barely halfway finished, but that was typical for him-- he was here for work, not leisure. 

As he perused the docks, looking more like a sad stowaway or a wandering nomad than an officer of the Spanish Navy, he realized he was going to have a tougher time than he expected. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Thus, he found himself resorting to baser means, pounding back drinks with seafaring brutes and exchanging quiet whispers with fragile young maidens under the cloudless blue sky. He hated every minute of it. The farce was almost more than he could handle, but he was an officer, and an officer did what needed to be done. All along, the open ocean counted the minutes with waves slapping against the docks. It had been days of drinking and flirting, bare backs pressed against the marble as warm lips met with his and secrets were exchanged on rotten, drunken breaths. Blake wanted nothing more than to escape this town and the pirates he was forced to fraternize with. He was in the navy for a reason. Each day, each hour, and eventually each minute he needed to remind himself just why he was doing this. He needed to find this pirate… and soon. 

In the midst of a French kiss (his seventh one that day) Blake heard the garbled name on the woman's tongue. Tenderly stroking her cheek, he begged for something more. She whispered a clue within the sweet nothings that delighted his ears. Something about a white ship. He could work with that. 

He left her crying, a few coins to remember him by. She had given him what he needed, rumors of a pirate stowaway on a ship, someone matching the rogue's description. She was no longer of use to him, and though she cursed him for lying, for breaking her heart, he ignored her cutting words and the things she threw at him as he walked away whilst buttoning up his coat. Out of sight, out of mind. With any luck, he wouldn’t be in this town for much longer-- he just had to find his stowaway on a white ship. There was a slight problem however: there were no white ships on the dock. White, white... Where would someone find a white ship? 

"Miss White! Your wares are unloaded!" shouted a crewmember as he raced past Blake in a hurry.

Aha.  _ White's _ ship.

Adjusting his belt and making himself look as ruggedly professional (and ideally handsome) as possible, Blake ambled down the street, making sure to find something or someone of interest as close to the merchant as possible. He flitted from market stand to market stand, commenting on beheaded fish and glittering gems as he surreptitiously followed the crewmember towards a brilliant ship in the center of the harbor. He wanted to sigh in frustration. Naturally, the ship he needed to get on was the most brilliant merchant ship in the whole port, with a square sail the size of someone’s house, maybe even bigger. It’s hull stretched farther out than any other ship, untouched by years at sea and still taking the lapping waves with grace as though today were its maiden voyage. 

Blake had heard about this ship. He heard much about its captain, whose wits and knowledge of the sea were unmatched. He knew her to be fierce-- not cruel or dangerous like pirates, but with a determined heart and an eye for risky, profitable scenarios. White was like a dragon, or so he had heard-- even the wickedest of pirates didn’t dare approach her mighty horde for fear of being burned alive by her flame. She was on the right side of the law, but whether or not the mighty dragon was aware, a rat had slipped on her ship. Blake had to find the pirate lurking in the shadows of the merchants’ crew, and to do that he needed to become one of them. 

He watched the crewmember scuttle away from White, relief on his face as he turned the corner to duck into the nearest saloon. Blake tailed him, just close enough not to be spotted. The merchant wouldn’t make it far. Even in the brilliant city of white, there was always a shadow. He followed the man past the saloon doors. Blake knew his Spanish features wouldn’t make him the best at flattery for a merchant ship, especially here. He knew men like these couldn’t be bribed to work with the Spanish navy. He would have to try something different. 

He crept amongst the darkness, moving with the wind and the sound of hoofbeats on the cobblestone so each step was silent. He was untouchable, undetectable, and untrackable. Unless he wanted them to, no one would know he was even here. And thus, Blake followed the crewmember like a pack of wolves panting upon the heels of a lost sheep. The alleyway was empty, away from prying eyes. Blake stepped out in the silence, finally alerting the crewmember to his presence. The poor thing wheeled about in fear, only to see a shadow move behind him and the cold, merciless kiss of steel on his throat. He didn’t dare flinch. He didn’t dare swallow. He didn’t even dare to breathe. 

“I need passage on White’s ship,” Blake hissed as the crewmember stared in horror. “Make me a crewmember before the ship sets off-- I don’t care how.”

The blade pressed deeper, a warning slice sending a slow trickle of blood down the man’s neck. Merchant and sailor he might have been, but he was not able to defend against someone of Blake’s caliber. No one dared cross a Spanish officer in combat unprepared. The mix of cold steel and warm blood on his neck made the man squeak out exactly what Blake wanted to hear. 

“T- that can be arranged.”


End file.
